


Journal of a Wanderer in Time

by seraphflight



Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Art, Diary/Journal, England (Country), London, M/M, Narrowboat, New Orleans, Paris (City), Roma | Rome, canal, cheshire - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2019-08-21 19:20:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16582517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphflight/pseuds/seraphflight
Summary: "Often, I have found, the simplest things in life are also the most exquisite..." writes Louis de Pointe du Lac in his private diary, which records not only his travels but also his blossoming fascination with a young and promising artist."From the countless billions of people thronging this Globe, how do we find that special person with whom we truly bond? And yet, within the span of any given life, there often features several such special people..." writes Louis, in this revealing and philosophical insight into his deepest thoughts.Louis and Brian enjoy an idyllic life touring Britain's canals on a narrowboat, unaware of the threat which looms over them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This story was originally published in journal form as part of an unfolding RPG game between February 2005 and October 2008, while the final section was completed several years later.
> 
> Anne Rice is the creator of her original characters, of course, and this story has been, is and always will remain 100% non-profit making.

_**New Orleans: 14th February, 2005.** _

The scattering of pulsing silver stars are barely visible through a prim veil of thick cloud as I sit beneath this canopy of stormy charcoal. If I was a painter I would paint it for him. If I was a poet I would seal its essence within a few deceptively simple phrases just so we might share this moment. Gazing upwards, I offer the night sky the faintest of smiles, marvelling how it is that this seemingly infinite myriad of celestial bodies have been so methodically counted and named.

How he had smiled obligingly at my small collection of star maps! How he had patted, like a master might pat an obedient dog, the black and silver telescope. Had my newly decorated study pleased him? He lounged like a languorous and greedy cat on the emerald satin quilt covering my antique four-poster, his mouth saying little, his eyes so teasingly expressive.

And now, as I sit beneath this 3am sky, I am unable to think of anything but his softly mocking laughter as I finally sank into his kiss.

I had watched his soft blond hair ruffling as he skated over the ice, elegant without effort, strong limbs outstretched as he pirouetted for the watching girls whose parted lips, sticky with popcorn and cheap wine, whispered their rapture. His easy exhibitionism and casual confidence held them captive. They were already lost and knew it not. Their eyes were slaves to his every move, to each line of his form, to each flowing hand gesture.

Was I a little jealous of their attention to Lestat? Am I such a sombre shadow to his light? I had glided over the ice towards him. My knee bent, my other leg extended out behind, my arms outstretched like wings ready to perfectly balance a pirouette to mirror his. Not quite, alas. I sailed across the ice on my derriere. And there was his laughter and faux-polite enquiry as to new bruises. He had grinned as he skated away, smirking like an over-fed tom cat.

And now I sit, my laptop computer open upon the wrought iron table in the corner of my small garden. High walls protect me from prying eyes and shelter the tremulous fronds of the old banana tree. The tulip-like flowers of the old magnolia tree fill the evening air with divine perfume.

Business demands my attention but I cannot settle to it. Even this garden had been redesigned with his pleasure in mind. Only for him do the new drapes hang, the new rugs cover old floors. Does he even notice? For myself I would not bother; indeed, our histories have noted my lack of subservience to rampant materialism. Yet for him, and him alone, have I brought the trappings of contemporary life into my home. It is as a theatre set in readiness for a play.

Have I annoyed him? If so, I can blame no person but myself. My fears regarding the longevity of my current liaison with him overwhelm me. Like a fool, I want reassurance of his fidelity. Foolish, as I know only too well his fickle nature. I should be content to enjoy what we have while we have it, but I cannot. Always a part of my mind is fixed upon an internal hourglass, watching the sand trickle down, wondering how the end will be arrived at this time around, and when.

What can I ask of him? His word in blood? He gave me that much centuries ago, in his own way. How can I demand irrefutable proof of his love, knowing if was given I would be examining it for a lie? Such things cannot be held up for scrutiny. And I know his nature. This time will end. It will die, like it always has before.

And each time I wonder if and how and when it will be re-born, blossom again, and how long I will have to wait for this to unfold. And each time my breath is stolen from me by the weight of my desire to drown beneath his will.

An old folk tune comes to plague me – Scarborough Fair - with its riddles meant to imply proof of love, and its herbal love spells meant to bind the lovers for all time.

This humble home has been the focus of considerable activity over recent months. Of my several residences, this is easily my preferred abode. I do not ever lease this place to strangers. Its architecture is not flamboyant. Its rooms are not numerous. A person might walk by my door every night for a decade and cast barely a glance this way, as is my intention. My privacy is sacrosanct. My personal reticence has, however, been required to take a back seat to a very necessary invasion of electricians, plumbers, carpenters and decorators.

This industrious cavalcade has now thankfully ceased. My restored home is resplendent in its new décor. The study pleases me especially, with its old world charm. I have heard the elders remark that we often return to those things once familiar to us. But rosewood furniture holds such genteel charm, and the harpsichord, though a contemporary reproduction, pleases to my ear.

It is starting to rain. Great silver tears smack against the pristine plastic of my laptop. This small walled garden will greedily drink from the sky’s gift tonight.

 

_**Rome: 8th April, 2005.** _

_O Roma nobilis, orbis et domina,_  
_Cunctarum urbium excellentissima,_  
_Roseo martyrum sanguine rubea,_  
_Albis et virginum liliis candida,_  
_Salutem dicimus tibi per omnia_  
_Te benedicimus: salve per saecula_  
From a 9th or 10th century poem, probably written at Verona.

Languishing on the steps which lead up to the Chiesa di Trinità dei Monti, enjoying the spectacle of the fountain known as the Barcaccia, I suddenly realised he was no longer at my side. This did not trouble me. I smiled faintly, confident that he would return in a moment or an hour. The square was still thronged with fashion conscious people intent on watching other beautiful people meandering along Via dei Condotti, Via Frattina and Via Borgognona.

The night stood yet at a tender hour. I left my place on the steps and joined the meandering crowds. No particular destination guided my patient footsteps. Only when I reached the Via Vittorio Veneto did I pause. A coffee shop provided the perfect site for more people-watching. The untouched cappuccino cooling between my long fingers, I languidly observed the simple rituals of courtship and flirtation unfolding around me. It is a pleasant way to while away an hour, non?

We have been in the Eternal City for several days now. Our hotel rooms are sumptuous, our privacy sacrosanct. Everywhere there is talk of the ailing Pope and of who may succeed him. I have no opinion with regards to this matter. Yet later, having gazed entranced upon the fine frescos of the Chapel of Saints Peter and Paul in the Baroque majesty of the Church of Sant' Eugenio, I calmly acknowledged my own past as I lit a small candle. The charm of this act caused me to smile. And yet whole nations have waged war over such simplicities.

And I remembered that delicate fold of pliable skin in the crook of his arm drawn firmly between my moving lips dragged quickening breaths from his arching throat. His hair, tangled over royal purple velvet pillows, was cruelly clutched by my clawing fingers. His limbs twisting and struggling beneath me, a willing captive whose spine bucked and shuddered as he thrust, rising from the damp and crumpled sheet beneath his crushed shoulders held fast by my hands. His cries in my ears mine to ignore.

And in that moment I saw it, shining clearly in his perfect blue eyes. For one fleeting moment, doubt born of a sudden uncertainty cast a shadow over his flushed face as he wondered just how safe he really was as my stinging kisses burned too fiercely for pleasure. He had denied it later, of course. I had smiled and silently allowed him this lie.

 

_**New Orleans: 12th April, 2005.** _

Often, I have found, the simplest things in life are also the most exquisite. Free of unnecessary artifice, those things which are overlooked as mundane or commonplace can often harbour captivating beauty. Too easily I find myself distracted by the slightest thing. Time slips by uncounted as I gaze with complete absorption at the delicate nuances of shade in a pearl, or in the way raindrops fall so softly upon the undulating surface of a dark pond. The texture of material enthrals me; I can see every thread of warp and weft, every subtle variation of the dye, every tiny stitch. I can stand motionless for hours before a painting, in silent rapture of every fluid brush stroke, every shade of thick oil or fragile watercolour.

The process of manufacturing fascinates me, from the wrestling of raw materials from the earth, to the protracted labours of an apprentice striving to excel in his or her craft, to the painstaking design process, to the actual creation of the object in question, to its arrival and display in some sharply illumined shop window.

I have long been a patron of the arts. Paintings line my walls. Many of these are the work of young, unrecognised artists whose work had caught my eye. The subject content is of no set theme. However, each one of these works expresses immense vitality and passion for life, for even quite mundane life. In each case, the artist has gone to enormous lengths to look upon his or her subject with intense clarity. These precious details, their every nuance of texture, shade, expression and mood have been captured for all time on canvas or on textured watercolour paper.

 

_**New Orleans: 15th May, 2005.** _

Consider for a moment the great love stories of this world; Anthony and Cleopatra, Alexander and Bagoas, Romeo and Juliet, Heloise and Abelard, Hadrian and Antinoos, King Arthur and Guinevere… We all adore such tales, non? We admire the courage and envy the intense passion.

When their tales end in tragedy we feel saddened, perhaps because our own exposure to such elevated emotions and experiences feels too limited. If love failed for these bright stars, what hope have we more humble souls of ascending to such heights?

The prospect of a life without love holds slender appeal.

From the countless billions of people thronging this Globe, how do we find that special person with whom we truly bond? This search would seem a hopeless task burdened with insurmountable obstacles. And yet, within the span of any given life, there often features several such special people. Those encounters which burn with furious intensity frequently endure but briefly. Their light may continue to illumine some small part of our souls until the end of our days, and yet it is often the comfortable and steadfast companion who becomes the one who shares our lives for the longest periods.

 _“Love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking together in the same direction."_ (Antoine de Saint-Exupéry).

And what, then, of the death of love?

When your soul lies wounded, consumed by grief, what then? Have you looked upon the teeming hordes around you, wondering how it is that life goes on untouched by your all-consuming pain? Yet life does go on; business must be attended to, life’s necessities cannot be ignored. And with the steady passage of every flowing hour, that which once was is more firmly consigned to history. Our rebellions against this process are in vain. Acceptance is the key to opening a new chapter of life.

" _To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead."_ (Bertrand Arthur William Russell, 1872-1970)

 

 _ **New Orleans:28th May, 2005**_.

I find myself in a deeply restless mood. This night is warm and humid. The indigo sky above me draped in corpulent charcoal clouds, and though I returned from a prolonged and meandering walk I find it hard to settle to this computer. The night is too enticing, the wafting breeze from the garden too fragrant, and my mood too subject to vacillation, for me to peaceably sit before this dispassionate glass screen.

This will pass, I know; and quickly I hope – for soon I shall attend the opening of an exhibition for emerging artists whose work is promising. There is one... He is young and very beautiful, and immensely talented. His skills as a portrait artist have not yet reached maturity but his canvases boldly announce his potential.

Perhaps I will commission Brian to paint me; or would this be an intolerably vain request?

Is this not a beautiful summer’s night? My small walled garden begins to show signs of neglect, but perhaps this enhances its profusion of textured shadows even more to me as I sit before this cold computer machine. The small fountain blesses the humid air with a soothing, trickling melody.

My phone is set to the answering machine; I do not care who may call right now – they can wait. I am too filled with the evening’s languor to be bothered attending to the mass of paperwork which awaits me in my study; for the time being, anyway.

For now, I will remain in my garden, at the ornate iron table set beneath the banana tree, and listen to the songs of resting birds and the muffled noise of traffic prowling the streets just beyond this little enclave.

 

_**New Orleans: 1st June, 2005.** _

I do so deplore poor manners. It is a sign of great weakness, in my opinion. I do not desire fawning obeisance or exaggerated etiquette, but surely simple courtesy is not too much to ask? And when utter disregard is presented by one who has been considered a valued employee for some considerable time, then how is the recipient of such behaviour to react if not with a fresh evaluation of that relationship?

I have lived long enough to expect most people to disappoint me. In this particular case, however, my disappointment is not for myself but for this person’s family, who were reliant on the income earned by employment to me.

So, I must now find a new gardener, one who actually carries out the tasks required by that role in a reliable and trustworthy manner. It’s hardly asking the earth.

 

_**New Orleans: 2nd June, 2005.** _

_"I have no special gift; I am only passionately curious."_ (Albert Einstein)

 _"The unexamined life is not worth living."_ (Socrates)

 _"He who looks outside dreams; he who looks inside awakens."_ (Carl Gustav Jung)

If the mysteries of life were placed before you like so many little cakes on a delicate china saucer, the probability is that you would dismiss them as mundane. And they would do you no good anyway. In order to truly appreciate such cakes you would first need to become a chef; you would need to learn how to bake them for yourself from the raw ingredients. Just as there are many levels of skill in cookery, so it is with metaphysics.

Over recent years I have become something of an armchair philosopher. It is an area of academia in which I have found much wisdom and solace. I do not profess to be a receptacle of great wisdom – heaven forbid! Neither will I ask that any reader of this journal submit to my philosophy, however they may stumble upon its pages. All I dare ask is that on occasion, a few sympathetic souls might tolerate my occult trains of thought.

What is it about life’s mysteries which compel a few souls to seek them out? Most people have but a passing interest in such things, considering the answers to be unattainable and therefore any search for them futile. They consider those questing souls who reach for hidden truths to be fools. Yet, in arcane wisdom The Fool symbolises much more than naivety, though the questing soul, far more free of the shackles of materialism than many, would seem gullible and foolish to most people.

It has been observed many times, by philosophers infinitely wiser than I, that Truth is not hidden but that we are blind to it; Truth stands revealed before us yet we do not see it, or we dismiss it because it does not correspond with our dogmatic assumptions and limiting beliefs.

 

_**New Orleans: 31st June, 2005.** _

I am what I am; this elegant and charming facade is but the mantle worn by a ruthless predator. I strike without compunction, without mercy and without judgement. Who am I to pass judgment upon anyone? I make no discrimination.

So often I hear people describe me as kind and gentle, or they imagine that my impeccable manners and charm equate with safety. Perhaps they assume my species are as tame tigers which they may fuss and pet. We may be careful of our claws on the furniture but we are still as we are. Do not mistake my kindness for weakness.

Do people imagine that danger always arrives announced? Perhaps these same gullible ones would also expect a burglar to advertise his or her trade by wearing a face-mask and by carrying large sack with “Swag” emblazoned upon it.

Those who search for me attract nothing but my contempt. How do these naïve people imagine they might recognise me? They search the tourist thronged streets of those much-publicised locations, their greedy eyes yearning for a glimpse of a pale-faced gentleman, preferably dressed in vintage Victoriana as if for a night at the opera. And of course they imagine themselves to be exempt from my hunger. They wait for me to whisk them away from their mundane life, from a life of toil and mundane practicalities to a life of untold luxury and elegance unlimited. And passion! Ah, they always seek the passion....

How little these people understand my life. The practicalities of business are inescapable for all of us, unless a person wishes to live as a roving vagrant. Indeed, some have chosen this path. I have businesses to attend to, staff to oversee. I pay my taxes. Only recently have I had my private residence completely renovated. My car needs an oil change and three suits need collecting from the dry cleaners; how ordinary is that?

 

_**New Orleans: 2nd July, 2005.** _

An unavoidable effect of discussing gossip is that the gossip itself is thereby contributed to. Gossip is perhaps the least elevated of all forms of the art of communication. Rarely is it accurate. Rarely is it in any way constructive.

My habitual reaction is to adopt a cold distance from these cupped-hand whisperers. My time is, in all truth, limited; I have business matters to resolve, domestic issues to attend to, and a busy life beyond this glass screen. I feel no desire to fritter my precious leisure hours in the pursuit of idle malice. I – arrogantly, perhaps – consider gossip to be beneath me. On occasion, however, it necessitates a suitable response.

Cyber-drama is an unfortunate but inevitable consequence of human communication being enacted within the safe and relatively anonymous environment of the cyber-realm. This passive digital world gives a certain type of person freedom to express their negative nature to its fullest extent. Quite often, their attention-seeking antics give rise to unintentional comedy, as these sobbing drama-queens clutch their clattering keyboards to bemoan their imaginary victim status to a largely, and not unreasonably, indifferent audience.

For example, only this evening, in response to a post elsewhere, I happened to view a certain rather vocal lady’s blog in which she wailed about the terrible stress she is apparently enduring as a consequence of her involvement in a particular project – a project which she claims is under attack from underhanded and false rumours, and that she has sided with the (allegedly) wronged party. I must confess to laughing aloud at this point. This same ‘noble’ soul was one of a small but particularly vicious gang of cyber-darlings who contrived an attempt to assassinate the reputation of a much loved friend of mine. Her declared penchant for fairness was conspicuous by its absence then, as was her evidence. Perhaps she was too content with her established role as a gossip-monger to concern herself with a little thing called truth.

Permit me to make my position absolutely clear, if by some strange quirk it may not already be so. I loathe gossip and gossipers alike; they bore me. As a highly creative person whose energies are focused on positive and constructive pursuits, I refuse to squander my precious time on this petulant nonsense beyond this lightly veiled response.

 

**_Paris: 12th July, 2005._ **

I am in Paris to oversee the exhibition at my gallery. The exhibition features the work of an unusually talented portrait artist, Brian, for whom I have become both patron and protector. I have flown him here and housed him at my expense, in order to properly introduce him to the Parisian art community. As anticipated, everyone seems quite taken with his effusive charm. His few flaws in etiquette can be schooled in time. His creativity has hardly begun to reach its peek and yet his bold, dramatic and colourful paintings show incredible potential. He uses large, loose brush strokes with a confidence far beyond his age of almost twenty.

His work has been selling rather well. Indeed, several commissions have resulted from this exhibition. He was hesitant in accepting these as it will require him to remain in Paris for a few months. I dismissed his uncertainty immediately. He will live as a guest in one of my rental properties.

My interest is not entirely unselfish as I receive commission from any income of his. Besides, have I not long been a patron of the arts and of unknown and struggling artists in particular? The role pleases me – in this case, indecently so.

 

_**Paris: 15th July, 2005.** _

Brian has proved to be a charmingly ebullient companion throughout his visit here. He seems to possess an insatiable curiosity about everything. Certainly he seemed to immediately take to Paris, and was equally at home browsing the late night shops, hands hardly laden with modest purchases. I think perhaps he has limited funds. He was at ease there as he was in the more rarefied atmosphere of my gallery. While I attended to some minor business details, he readily occupied himself by scrutinising the other artists’ work.

The gallery itself was thronged by the usual mixture of press, artists, bohemians, aspiring creative types and the inevitable coterie of hangers-on. I could only wonder at the impressions she derived from this gathering. They seemed quite taken with my protégé, Brian and his exhibited works.

I have given him the use of one of my properties while he fulfils a number of commissions which have arisen as a consequence of the exhibition. He was uncertain if he should accept, as he already feels overly indebted to me. However, there was no outstanding booking for that property anyway. Usually it is rented to long-stay wealthy tourists or business people, as are most of my properties around this city.

 

_**Paris: August 4th, 2005.** _

I had not intended to linger in Paris. The exhibition will run for another two weeks but my staff is more than capable of handling all business transactions. The one whom I employ to manage the gallery for me was chosen well. There is no professional reason for me to remain here, and yet I feel increasingly reluctant to leave so soon.

And so here I remain, the familiar Paris streets beneath my feet once again, re-discovering the city through the hungry curiosity of my protégé. I have been showing him the beauty of this city, the echoing churches with their towering architecture, the small shops crammed into secluded lanes which the swarms of brash tourists rarely find. I have been discovering, also the inevitable changes which time’s passage brings.

Brian’s eyes devour it all, his young and pliable mind feeding greedily on sights and sounds and snippets of information which are all new to him yet so familiar to me.

How do I seem to him, I wonder? I hold back, wary of pressing my case, of causing his sensitive soul to flee from any hasty approach. Instead, I absorb his every faint movement, the flick of a casual wrist, the way he restlessly pushes his hair back from his smooth forehead, the way the lip of his pink tongue brushes his perfectly-shaped lips. His manner is amiable yet cautious; he wonders why I have selected him for my special patronage from the many dozens of similarly beautiful and talented artists who hang around my galleries, dreaming of catching the eye of the mysterious and influential owner. His reservations speak only pleasing things about his nature; a sweet given too freely rarely sustains my interest.

I have watched him painting late at night when he thought himself unobserved. From the shadows, my possessive eyes have captured his every nuance of expression. He stands before the canvas, his weight thrown onto his left leg, his right leg extended almost like a dancer, one hand on his hip. He lightly chews the end of a hogs-hair brush, scowling intently at his work in progress; never satisfied, his pulse quivering with surging adrenaline and an inner hunger of his own. His head is filled with purpose and ambition – and with my pulsing emerald eyes, which seem to enter his dreams when he lies, murmuring softly in his sleep, his tussled head nestling on feather pillows, the crisp white linen of his damp bed now creased and tangled around his stretching limbs, creased beneath his young and supple back, his flushed and arching throat. I intend his dreams to be sweet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis de Pointe du Lac is fascinated by a talented young artist called Brian (OC). They embark upon a bohmeian existence aboard a narrowboat, drifting along England's peaceful canals. But can this idyll last?

  **London: August 17th, 2005.**

Brian ate the roast sea-bass with engagingly delicate mannerisms. He has been learning social niceties, I notice. The other diners in the Glass Restaurant paid little attention to the collection of contemporary mirrors which hung on the walls, but his keen eye missed no detail. The dear boy would have been happy to dine in one of those brash convenience places but I would not hear of it. I wished to carry away pleasing memories of this last evening in London before our lives diverge.

He seemed both excited and nervous at seeing me again. No doubt he had much news to impart. And yet he also seemed a little despondent, despite his attempt to hide this.

I pretended to sip my glass of white wine while enjoying our surroundings. He thought it strange that I did not dine. I felt the familiar hunger all too keenly; in fact I enjoyed its quietly simmering demands for attention. His every movement was enticing to me.

The herb sauce on the fish was to his liking, he said, and he enthused about Paris and how he had fallen in love with that city; about what he had seen while there – the art, the people, its ancient and modern places. And he talked about the exhibition, and how it felt for total strangers to buy his paintings, his little creations, and to be admired for skills he has only just begun to unveil to an eager world.

The dessert was a revelation in cream and chocolate – to him, at least. For me it held no appeal, but I relished observing him passing morsels of food between those delightfully shaped lips and past those small white teeth, and onto that moist pink tongue. I watched the soft muscles of his throat move as the food passed into his body to begin the steady passage through his digestive system. Quite the animated compost heaps, these mortals are. In one end, out the other; and always too priggish to acknowledge the obvious truth of their function in life’s grand scheme – the transformation of material from one state to another, part of the infinite chain of flowing energy for a purpose we know nothing of, for all our vast centuries of philosophy and belief.

My own species plays its allotted part also. I have no illusions about existing outside of the Whole. There is no “outside”. Everything is within the Whole.

I digress....

Brian’s mood grew heavier as the time of our parting approached. It was only as we stood outside on Bloomsbury Street, as we waited for our separate taxis to arrive, that his demeanour almost crumbled. He tried to hide his embarrassment behind his floppy hair. The temptation to reach out and touch was so great. But I have learned how to bide my time, to spin out the game. The pleasure is in the playing, not merely in conquest.

I said, “I have one more surprise for you before we part.”

I smiled as I handed him an envelope containing a Frequent Traveller Privilege Account Number and password for Eurostar, the train service through the Channel Tunnel. “After all,” I added, “Paris is only a short ride away.”

Brian’s face was a picture!

 

**New Orleans: 31st December, 2005.**

The Wheel of the Year turns again, non? Sadness and disappointment are always with us in this world but this is no reason to simply give up; hope is always here also, and as a wise soul once said, happiness is a choice.

 _"If you choose not to follow your dream because you're afraid, you'll pay a price for that... you'll pay with the progressive deadening of your soul, as time and your own disillusionment with yourself eat away at who you are. One day you'll wake up and discover that the part of yourself that knew how to dream---and how to fly---has died, and that you are forever after bound to the ground, with only the memory that you once had wings."_ \--Holly Lisle—

Brian writes to me regularly, telling me of his progress in art and pleading with me to come to his studio to view his most recent work. I want to go but I will not. I deny myself, deny my hunger. I would only sully that which I would nurture. If I was Lestat I would just take. Take and take until all was gone. And what then, hmm? Only ruin would remain.

I must set this aside and busy myself. I will not bend in this.

 

**New Orleans: 14th April, 2006.**

People, in general, are still determined to apply constrictive labels to many aspects of life, including sexuality. Love has many countless forms; love can be expressed in a myriad of ways. Love does not have to be sexual, just as sexuality need not involve love.

Who has the right to pronounce on behalf of other consenting adults that one form of love is more valid than another? There is no right or wrong to consenting adult love.

Due to ingrained inhibitions absorbed by all of us as children, often without us being aware of the process, sexuality can be burdened with guilt and shame. These deliberately manufactured constraints have hampered so many, many lives, and have been used with great effect by the church as a tool of control and sublimation. Keep the masses riddled with guilt, oppressed by even the fear of guilt, and obligingly they have bent the knee to the most successful and corrupt international dictatorship this world has ever known.

 _"Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword._ " Mathew 10:34, King James Bible.

Many seem ignorant of the church’s history, for all that is readily available for study. The Old Testament is a collection of Hebrew folklore written any time between about 1200 and 165 BC, and it was already old when it was first written down, its stories drawing heavily from even earlier Sumerian folklore. The New Testament’s earliest sections are the letters written between about 50 and 62 AD by St Paul, a man whose teachings were disputed by those disciples who had actually worked alongside Jesus, which St Paul had not.

In 331 AD, the Roman Emperor Constantine commissioned fifty Bibles for the Church of Constantinople. The contents of the Bible were debated first in Rome in 382 AD, then in Hippo in 393 AD and at Carthage in 397 AD – nearly four long centuries after the events which are alleged to have taken place.

And let’s not forget that several versions of the Bible co-existing even now: the Greek Orthodox; the Slavic Orthodox; the Armenian Orthodox; the Ethiopian version which is arguably older than them all; plus a string of apocryphal books which were edited from the Carthage selection as they were considered to be politically unhelpful to Constantine.

How fortunate we are to live in this age of easily accessible information. As a boy such histories were unknown to me. Now, with an easy click on this laptop computer all is available.  
What would my brother have made of all this, I wonder? When he raved in religious fervour, my family considered him an embarrassment and I wondered if he might not become a saint. It is sobering to recognise that today he would be given a simple little tablet, once or twice a day, and his ravings would be soothed.

I think of all the beautiful stained glass windows which I have looked upon, and wonder how many of those saints and martyrs might have been guided gently back to sanity by modern medication.

 

**Amsterdam: 10th July, 2006.**

A deep melancholy has washed over me. By chance I came across a letter – more of a note, really; just a quoted poem which no doubt seemed pertinent to the sender at the time, and which spoke of togetherness and passion and of love, and of a brave determination to face eternity. It seems that those words had no sooner been penned than they were consigned to cruel history. My immediate sharp pang has faded, of course, yet the dull sting of loss-tainted memory of Lestat burns on.

Some loves shine so brightly that while they are before you, you cannot see them clearly. Only after time has placed some objective distance between then and now can the true value, the true preciousness, be evaluated.

And some things, as sweet as they may be, demand far too high a personal price.

 

**London: 9th October, 2008.**

_When you start on your journey to Ithaca,_  
_then pray that the road is long,_  
_full of adventure, full of knowledge...._  
K. P. Kavafis

I have watched from the shadows, unseen and yet seeing much.

Two years have passed since I last walked here, and much has happened and I am tempted to return to this fragile web of communication, to cling to its tenuous strands and draw him to me once more.

Would he come?

His life, too, has moved on. Perhaps the memory of me lies forgotten, like some faded velvet bookmark which has drifted from between once-loved pages of a favourite dark romance.

Perhaps this is as it should be, for I walk this realm alone now and would be but poor company. And if I was to call upon the four drifting winds and was to hear only the empty echo of my own name in reply, then truly I would know it is time to fade.

Eternally,  
L.

 

**London: 10th April, 2010.**

_“That man has reached immortality who is disturbed by nothing material._ ” Swami Vivekananda.

I had set aside this journal. Perhaps I should have maintained it. What for, though? I remember everything. This trait is very much a double-edged sword, though one I would not exchange. Pain can be a worthy companion of pleasure, when experienced in an appropriate context.

Much has happened since my last entry of two years ago. Brian’s studio was destroyed by fire. The cause was entirely mundane - an electrical fault in a second-hand heater he’d bought. Everything was reduced to ash or ruined beyond repair. All his work was gone. He was elsewhere at the time, safe and unknowing until a telephone call alerted him. He arrived as firemen were dousing the building with arching jets of water. Nobody was inside, only things – art works, supplies and equipment, etc.

I knew nothing of this until later, when I found him living on a canal narrowboat, drifting around the country and painting as he went, earning little but more content than he had ever been. He teaches, here and there, offering pop-up classes to anyone who responds to the flurry of posters he leaves as he travels. It seems a vagabond existence. Not unlike my own.

I have closed my New Orleans home. Its valuable antique furnishings are in storage, though heaven knows they weren’t antiques when I bought them; they were merely of acceptable quality then. I have retained the services of a caretaker but otherwise my old home stands idle and empty. If ill befalls it while I am away, then so be it.

I travel. I have no itinerary, no specific goal. I am not looking for anything. I just go where the wind blows me, carrying only a few items in an increasingly ragged backpack. I need little, really. I desire little.

I have walked across Europe, slept in dense, ancient forests, explored fabulous mansions which are steadily crumbling back into the mountains from which they were hewn. I have watched crowded fiestas and solemn processions, weddings shimmering with eye-bright laughter, and red-faced brawls in squalid taverns. TO supply my few needs I empty the pockets of low-lifes and gangsters, as stupid in this day as their type was centuries ago.

And now I have returned to my London home, where I will rest for as long as I feel the need, before wandering once more. I have distanced myself from the latest nonsense of our cursed ‘family’. Any reunion of theirs will be as short-lived as it always was. We miss each other, and then we can’t abide the reflection of ourselves found in each other. Brian says this is the same with all families. There is a grain of truth there, I believe. Several grains, even.

 

**Pontcysyllte Aqueduct, Llangollen Canal: 24th August, 2012.**

It is the height of the English summer, and the rain is merciless. This long, cramped narrowboat is intolerable. Brian smells like a dead goat. His vocal protestations concerning my own condition were no more favourable. The windows stream with condensation. The heater is useless. Everything is small. Everything has to be tidied away; there is no space to leave things out, and what little space there might have been is filled by canvases – finished paintings, in-progress paintings and empty canvases – or filled by stackable trays of paint tubes, jars crammed with stained brushes, jars crammed with pencils, twigs and feathers. The whole place reeks of fish and chips, linseed oil, turpentine and wet coats.

That aside, we’re rather loving it.

 

**Shropshire Union Canal, Chester: 28th August, 2012.**

The glorious heat of the day has flowed into the night. Brian worries in case my daytime resting places are disturbed, despite my reassurances of the unlikelihood of this. Pity the one who unearths me. By day he paints; sometimes he teaches small groups of amateurs to daub a little better. He is always kind, treading lightly on their dreams. They follow our progress along the canals of England via his website, though in truth we’re not hard to find. How many artists are there drifting along a limited number of waterways, really?

He is the artist. And I...? How do they view me, the strange one who is only seen after dark? The one who doesn’t paint, who has no wish to paint despite an extensive knowledge of art. They sit on the grassy banks and talk with me, some of them testing my knowledge against theirs as if in competition, others imagining that their efforts to politely root out our secrets are subtle. They amuse me. For now, at least. And Brian is the sun to their world – again, for now, at least until the next novelty teases their curiosity. We will move on tomorrow. I will insist upon that. Too many unanswered questions begin to slip from their unsuspecting lips.

 

**Shropshire Union Canal, Barbridge Junction: 17th September, 2012.**

The lack of space aboard this narrowboat wears even Brian’s patience. There simply isn’t enough room to store his work. He sold some canvases at shamefully low prices, in my view, but the space gained was soon filled by new canvases, and as these have been added to at a prodigious rate the living conditions here have become unendurable. Cramped, dirty, and with now space to enable anything more than the most minimal of domestic improvements.

We bathe in the canal itself, or pay for moorings where we can access clean water. Then we have a cleaning frenzy, two men with sleeves rolled up, scrubbing, washing, laundering late into the night. But when that’s done with, we sit on folding chairs on the bank and gaze contentedly up at pristine night skies, and the only sound is our own quiet voices and the soft slap of water against the boat and mud-caked bank, or the muted flap of damp shirts on the clothes line.

We are often not alone. These waterways are filled with multiple crafts chugging leisurely routes to nowhere in particular. Family groups, solo travellers, day trippers, plus a few who have made this their permanent way of life. Brian would become one of these if it wasn’t for the lack of space, which he needs to paint in. He loves the water. Perhaps some compromise can be arranged, a studio by a river somewhere.

But he will take nothing from me. A man earns his own money, he insists. And he is a man now, and not the awkward student he was when we first met. He looks older now than I do. I see him silently comparing us sometimes, when he thinks I do not notice. He has fine lines around his eyes, while I have none and never will have.

Is this how it begins, the madness which besets mortals if they are around us too long? I have warned him of this but he believes he knows better.

 

**Chester Canal, moored beside the Roman walls: 9th November, 2012.**

Skill without imagination is craftsmanship and gives us many useful objects such as wickerwork picnic baskets. Imagination without skill gives us modern art.  
Tom Stoppard

Every space, it seems, is crammed with canvases. There is barely walking space left inside this crowded boat. These canvases must be sold. What else is the destiny of any artist’s work, unless that artist is an amateur who paints only for the joy of covering the walls of their own home? No, Brian’s work must be placed before the eyes of the world. And to achieve this, our days as water gypsies must come to an end.

Besides, winter is upon us, bringing algid days of increasing damp chill. It troubles me little, beyond being unpleasant, but Brian has developed a hacking cough.

 

**London: 23rd November, 2012.**

Brian’s narrowboat is in dry dock at Taylor’s Boatyard in Chester, which has quite a history, dating back to 1795. There is a minor repair to the hull in progress. It will be moored there until spring, I suspect.

We’re at my London home, which feels remarkably spacious after months of confinement on the narrowboat. In reality, this is an uninspired property. I’ve never been over fond of it, despite it having been mine for a very long time. Property prices are at a premium here; its sale would bring me a remarkably generous profit.

All summer we have been at play. Winter is almost upon us, and now we are all business. I look to my portfolio. Brian looks to the exhibition.

Brian is late again. He has spent days with the gallery curator, deciding exactly how to hang his paintings. His days are his own, of course. He finds it strange still, that I am away during daylight hours. Actually, I rest mere feet away from this lounge but he knows nothing of the small basement room hidden away behind a disguised wall panel. No mortal could penetrate this room without the aid of heavy industrial machinery.

At least the coming winter, with its longer nights, means we have more time together.

He has just phoned; he will be later yet. But the city calls to me. I hunger. I will answer that call.

 

**London: 24th November. 2012.**

I am furious. How could he dare? And with so glib a smile, so easy a greeting... Lestat, his arm resting casually around Brian’s shoulders, grinning with effortless charm and audacious confidence, the same self-assurance which drove me to similar fury centuries ago.

And Brian, oblivious to the long games of his new friend, allowed this familiarity.

I shake with fury and fear.

Who else of our kind knows of the forthcoming exhibition?

 

**London: 25th November 2012.**

As soon as this is over, I will leave. I do not know where I shall go. This does not matter. But leave I must, and leave Brian to his unfolding future. His exhibition will open tomorrow. I have seen it already. The paintings look different somehow now they’re properly framed and expertly hung on pristine white gallery walls, illumined by discrete but effective spotlights. Familiar canvases in an unfamiliar setting, subtly changes, no longer private and of our shared time together.

I knew it would have to end. End, or I would drive him insane, as they all go insane. I will not contemplate any alternative. Kill, ruin or turn. No. And so I will leave.

Brian knows nothing of this yet. I will wait until after the opening night, when the critics will be already forming their journalistic phrases as they drive away through late-night traffic.

As for the other pest, who knows what he may do.


End file.
